


Being a Pro Chef with Prince York

by orphan_account



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:05:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4120722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince York runs a cooking show while avoiding marriage, with his devoted sprite, Delta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being a Pro Chef with Prince York

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the RVB Jamboree last year. It hasn't really been edited, sorry about that!
> 
> (The idea was a genre mix, so it's Fantasy + Cooking Show)

“Good morning, and welcome to ‘Being a Pro Chef with Prince York’! Today we’re gonna mix it up a bit and work with puffed pastries. As usual, my ever so faithful and ever so green sprite is here to help, and maybe to make my jokes a little funnier—“  
  
That’s Delta’s cue. He’s done this many times before, and it’s become routine for him. He’s already staring at the camera, so the only gesture he makes is a curt nod.   
  
“Thank you,” followed up by the usual “it’s good to be here, Prince York.”  
  
The line that stays the same, no matter what show. No matter what’s going on behind the scenes. Delta has a script that he forces himself to run; there’s no going away from it. York’s going on about the pastries he’s preparing, and Delta is mechanically going through the motions. Levitate an ingredient here, turn the oven up to the proper degree there, deadpan at one of York’s jokes—the audience apparently loves that part.  
  
Then again, the audience loves anything that makes York seem more endearing. If his sprite doesn’t think he’s funny, they lap it up. It’s not really that Delta doesn’t think he’s funny, either, but he can’t fight years’ worth of instincts he’s programmed into himself. If he’s to stay in his place at the prince’s side, he can’t find him as endearing as everyone else.  
  
Delta doesn’t usually feel jealous; it’s illogical to do so, when his place is so sought after. But there are times when there’s a tiny prick at the back of his mind, and he knows that if he tried to pinpoint the source, that it’d be a different sort of green.  
  
“D, you hear that? It’s mail time!”  
  
Mail time is York’s favourite, therefore it’s the most important part of the show to Delta. Sure, he loves the cooking—or baking in this case—but getting to hear from his fans about his cooking is something special. While the pastries are in the oven, York flops down in the mail time chair, as graceless as ever, before plucking an envelope from the table next to him. Normally, Delta is in charge of sorting through the mail; he usually goes for a letter that is relevant to cooking and to York, but he was pulled aside this morning by the queen—York’s mother.  
  
“We have a special letter for him to read this afternoon,” she had said, letting Delta take the envelope held towards him. “I’ve returned the one you had picked out to the pile, which he can read tonight.”  
  
York never missed a letter, and he usually enlisted Delta’s help in responding to the ones he could. But never has the queen –or anyone else, for that matter—requested a specific letter. It was York’s show, his project; nobody messes with it.  
  
Regardless, Delta didn’t find harm in it. If the queen wanted to plug something via her son’s show, that wasn’t for him to argue with.   
  
“This is from a—“ York’s reading the letter, and Delta pulls himself out of the memory. York’s paused, his face blank. Delta has to hold himself down from flitting over to see what’s wrong; it’s his place to worry about York, but it wouldn’t look good in the show. They’d probably have to edit this part out already. Anything that makes the prince seem hesitant doesn’t have a place being in the public eye.  
  
York’s clearing his throat, putting on a smile. It’s bright, but Delta knows his smiles, has categorised each one of them from the moment they met. “This is from a Princess Cassandra—which I’m pretty sure all of you viewers have heard of. She’s a popular girl!”  
  
He’s not excited about the letter, Delta knows. He also knows that Cassandra, lovely woman as she is, is not who York wants to hear from. Delta even less so.  
  
The thing about being a prince is that eventually, there will need to be a princess. York has successfully put it off for four years, but after the death of his father he had finally agreed. And Cassandra was at the top of the list; a sweet woman, with ideals that matched York’s. She even enjoyed cooking.  
  
Delta thinks she’s perfect for him, but it still hurts. And it’s confusing to him—it’d be logical to be happy about this, right? The one conversation he had with York about the subject rings out in his mind.  
  
“She deserves someone who could give her their full attention.”  
  
At the time, it wasn’t something he could ask about. And even now, weeks later, he can’t place the meaning of it.  
  
York’s still reading the letter. Delta sees him give it a once over—unusual for the prince, who usually just starts reading away—and he looks up to catch Delta’s eye. His smile, which was categorised as Smile Number Sixty Eight, had faded into something new.  
  
Delta will remember it, but he can’t give it a name or a number. The look makes his magical insides hurt when they shouldn’t, his head aches where something doesn’t even exist.   
  
“I’m gonna have to record this later. It’s quite a…” York’s trailing off, putting the letter beside him on the arm of the chair before crossing his arms over his stomach.   
  
“An important letter?” Delta adds in for him, forcing his voice to be as unemotional as ever. Like a computer. Something there to assist York in whatever he wants or needs. Without opinions that will never be asked for.  
  
York’s response is a hollow laugh, before rubbing his face with a hand. He doesn’t respond for a good minute, and Delta’s about to cave and ask him if everything’s alright when he leans his head back and sighs.  
  
“I can’t read this letter, D. I don’t think I’m supposed to, not out loud,” Delta’s confused—the queen had given it to him to read, but it _was_ unopened. Maybe she didn’t know the contents. “Cassandra’s message was pretty personal. Why’d you pick it?”  
  
“I did not,” Delta flickers, appearing closer to York. “The queen requested this specific one.”

  
“Weird,” York mumbles before sitting up. “She must not have known what was inside.”  
  
Delta’s unresponsive for a moment, before finally deciding that asking about it was fine and yes, it was logical to know the response. “Might I ask what was in that letter?”  
  
Without saying anything, York picks the letter up by the corner and slides it towards Delta, who grabs it with magic. It unfolds itself, cloaked in green magic. He reads the letter immediately, taking not more than a few seconds, before folding it neatly and replacing it on York’s chair.  
It’s Cassandra’s true feelings. That she was in love with another, someone her parents could never know about. That she’d only marry York if he could accept this of her, and understand that her heart was with someone else.   
  
Delta doesn’t know how to feel. In fact, this was a possibility he had only run in his mind a few times. Mostly wishful thinking, that he immediately quashed.   
  
“You see, D?” York’s talking again, staring off at the ceiling, hands tucked behind his head. “Her and I—we had the same problem, but only she was brave enough to admit it.”  
  
Delta doesn’t see—the same problem? York’s never shown anything more than passing interest, and Delta should know. He knows all of York, can see through him to the molecular level. This wasn’t a problem he’s detected, and he immediately scolds himself for it. “I’m sorry, York. I was unaware of this problem.”  
  
York rolls his head to the side, to look Delta over—which isn’t much, Delta floats at about six inches—and grins. A grin he’s seen before, one of kind relief, and maybe a little amused. Number Six. He’s only seen it a few times, and they were usually directed at him. If he had a favourite, it’d be this one.  
  
“The show must go on,” he says, getting out of the chair and stretching. “We’ve got some pastries to—oh, shit.”  
  
Delta is glad he doesn’t have a sense of smell; from York’s face, the smell of burning pastries is nothing he wants to experience.


End file.
